


The Clothes of a Lion

by dragonspell



Category: Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: It doesn’t have to be over, he says and I nod along before I realize what he means, what he’s suggesting, what he’s needing.  He stares forward, awkward and silent as he composes himself and I know that it’s not desire that forms the words, but desperation, a driving need to be, if only for just a night, who he is and not who he pretends to be. It doesn’t matter.  My answer is still yes.  My answer will always be yes.(Chapter 1 is first person pov, chapter 2 is second person)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Person

It doesn’t have to be over, he says and I nod along before I realize what he means, what he’s suggesting, what he’s needing. He stares forward, awkward and silent as he composes himself and I know that it’s not desire that forms the words, but desperation, a driving need to be, if only for just a night, who he is and not who he pretends to be.

It doesn’t matter. My answer is still yes. My answer will always be yes. Who could turn away the charming crown prince? Jack Benjamin of Gilboa? If any exist, they must be few and far between because I think I might follow him anywhere. There’s a strange devotion in me, beyond loyalty to king and country, and it belongs to this man and his blue eyes and heartbreaking smile.

Inside, he kisses me, lips soft and wet and wanton. Shame and shackles were shed at the door, leaving me with a man momentarily freed unto his desire. He knocks me off balance, leans me against the wall, and molds himself to me, becomes one against my clothes, his legs slotting neatly between my own while his hands fist in my coat. For once, our heights are on par with another, all of me within his reach. 

He kisses like he’s sure it’s his last, always greedy for more, lingering, never quite leaving before he comes back again and again. I could lose myself in him, let him take all that I am and all that I will be. My hands skate along his back, pressing hard—keeping him on Earth instead of flying off with the angels—and he moans into my mouth.

His eyes are soft when he pulls away, still full of need and desperation, but tempered with a desire to make it last. He licks his lips, a slow slide of his tongue, and quirks his mouth into that smile that makes the world want to throw itself at his feet. “Come on,” he whispers and threads his fingers through mine. He tugs me forward, leading me in, and I follow like a trusting lamb, unable to think beyond the here and now, unwilling to consider what awaits me outside this room.

Each inch of skin he bares is another beat of my heart, added weight to my growing desire. The building could collapse around me and I doubt that I’d look away. He pretends shyness and perhaps it’s real but it doesn’t matter because I’m charmed anyway by the duck of his head and the way he looks up at me through long lashes. His hands stumble for a moment on the hem of his undershirt, pausing as though he’s uncertain, before he pulls it off and stands before me. He waits, his fingers edging along the band of his trousers, and flicks his eyes up to meet mine before bringing them back down as if the floor might contain the answers he seeks.

I exhale softly, a prisoner of my own desire, and start to remove my own clothes, piece by piece until I match him.

His smile flickers back into existence and his trousers slide down his long legs, baring all to me, armor removed and defenses down, every pale inch open for my inspection. The battle-hardened muscle of his torso tapers into tight hips with a jut of bone. He is on display, for my pleasure and his own.

In the moment that I join him, I find myself entangled, limbs twining, skin sliding over skin. He gasps as I touch him, then chuckles, surprised at himself and amused. He kisses my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, then turns with a sigh, putting himself onto his knees. My lungs forget how to draw air.

A hand fumbles between my legs, slick as it seeks me, and I’m pressed into tight heat, his body stretching around me. A cry drops from my mouth, echoing his low gasp. Below me is the expanse of his back, fluid, flexing muscles that bunch and stretch as he pushes back against me, moving to please himself when I do not. My heart beats out a sharp staccato rhythm, struggling to find something upon which to ground itself because all I know is the warmth of his body, the flex of his hips, the slickness of his sweat.

And that he is beautiful.

My hips stutter forward, nudging against him, and he whispers encouragement, wanting more. His entire being welcomes me in.

Soft words drop from his softer lips, though I know that my name will not be one of them. I know that it is not me that he thinks of, that he has turned away to give me a different face, a different mind, a different heart, but it does not matter. He may use me as he likes. I will gladly give him this.

He is a beautiful bird, wrapped in the clothes of a lion, his claws sharp when all he means to do is sing, and I will never be deserving of him, but I may spend a night in his company. It is more than I ever thought possible. Tonight he sings for me, his body thrumming with my touch, his gasps and lust-roughened voice working in harmony with my own. His hips move in time with mine, body responding to every stroke, every half-formed desire. My hands grip his sides, fingers spread along the soft skin and flexing muscle as we both work towards perfection.

“Harder,” he orders, pushing back and opening himself up to me even more. His fingertips scrape along my side before he drops himself to the bed and hides his face from the world. “Like the bull you are.”

I obey, of course I do, harder and faster and over again until he cries out. Every whimper, every tremble is a victory in a long-fought war, a triumph to be celebrated, to be remembered.

Little more than a pliant doll afterwards, he holds himself still until I finish, waiting out each shudder until the last. When my fingers finally loosen, my grip on him no longer bruising, he pushes himself up with a sigh. He stretches, body rippling with the motion, and smiles again, more like himself than I’ve seen in awhile. As he looks at me, I am stung with the realization that this is Jack before me, Jonathan, the Prince having retired for the night. He kisses me then, slow and softer than I would have imagined, full of fondness and I’d like to think gratitude. “It’s nice to have someone that I can trust,” he says.

I nod. “Always, sir,” I tell him and think of how I will follow this man until I can no longer walk and even then I will crawl.

His lips brush against mine again. “Jack,” he corrects.

I faithfully repeat it. “Jack.” His smile makes me think that I could fly, if he wills me to.

Whatever tomorrow holds, or the day after that, I know that I will not regret this night, giving myself to this man, if only for a moment. His song, his self, is now a part of me. I know that he will not reciprocate, keeping himself whole, sure to lock himself away in the coming hours, but I see now what all of those who devote themselves to him have been witness to. I have seen the light that he shines only to the few, and only when the mask of Prince gives way to the man hidden underneath. It is this man that I will follow, this man that I will hail as my king when the time comes, and I will stay beside him for as long as he allows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t have to be over, he says and you nod along before you realize what he means, what he’s suggesting, what he’s needing. He stares forward, awkward and silent as he composes himself, and you know that it’s not desire that forms the words, but desperation, a driving need to be, if only for just a night, who he is and not who he pretends to be. It doesn’t matter. Your answer is still yes. Your answer would always be yes.

It doesn’t have to be over, he says and you nod along before you realize what he means, what he’s suggesting, what he’s needing. He stares forward, awkward and silent as he composes himself, and you know that it’s not desire that forms the words, but desperation, a driving need to be, if only for just a night, who he is and not who he pretends to be.

It doesn’t matter. Your answer is still yes. Your answer would always be yes. Who could turn away the charming crown prince? Jack Benjamin of Gilboa? If any exist, they must be few and far between because you think you might follow him anywhere. There’s a strange devotion in you, beyond loyalty to king and country, and it belongs to this man and his blue eyes and heartbreaking smile.

Inside, he kisses you, lips soft and wet and wanton. Shame and shackles were shed at the door, leaving you with a man momentarily freed unto his desire. He knocks you off balance, leans you against the wall, and moulds himself to you, becomes one against your clothes, his legs slotting neatly between your own while his hands fist in your coat. For once, your heights are on par with another, all of you within his reach. 

He kisses like he’s sure it’s his last, always greedy for more, lingering, never quite leaving before he comes back again and again. You could lose yourself in him, let him take all that you are and all that you will be. Your hands skate along his back, pressing hard—keeping him on Earth instead of flying off with the angels—and he moans into your mouth.

His eyes are soft when he pulls away, still full of need and desperation, but tempered with a desire to make it last. He licks his lips, a slow slide of his tongue, and quirks his mouth into that smile that makes the world want to throw itself at his feet. “Come on,” he whispers and threads his fingers through yours. He tugs you forward, leading you in, and you follow like a trusting lamb, unable to think beyond the here and now, unwilling to consider what awaits you outside this room.

Each inch of skin he bares is another beat of your heart, added weight to your growing desire. The building could collapse around you and you doubt that you’d look away. He pretends shyness and perhaps its real but it doesn’t matter because you’re charmed anyway by the duck of his head and the way he looks up at you through long lashes. His hands stumble for a moment on the hem of his undershirt, pausing as though he’s uncertain, before he pulls it off and stands before you. He waits, his fingers edging along the band of his trousers, and flicks his eyes up to meet yours before bringing them back down as if the floor might contain the answers he seeks.

You exhale softly, a prisoner of your own desire, and start to remove your own clothes, piece by piece until you match him.

His smile flickers back into existence and his trousers slide down his long legs, baring all to you, armor removed and defenses down, every pale inch open for your inspection. The battle-hardened muscle of his torso tapers into tight hips with a jut of bone. He is on display, for your pleasure and his own.

In the moment that you join him, you find yourself entangled, limbs twining, skin sliding over skin. He gasps as you touch him, then chuckles, surprised at himself and amused. He kisses your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, then turns with a sigh, putting himself onto his knees. Your lungs forget how to draw air.

A hand fumbles between your legs, slick as it seeks you, and you’re pressed into tight heat, his body stretching around you. A cry drops from your mouth, echoing his low gasp. Below you is the expanse of his back, fluid, flexing muscles that bunch and stretch as he pushes back against you, moving to please himself when you do not. Your heart beats out a sharp staccato rhythm, struggling to find something upon which to ground itself because all you know is the warmth of his body, the flex of his hips, the slickness of his sweat.

And that he is beautiful.

Your hips stutter forward, nudging against him, and he whispers encouragement, wanting more. His entire being welcomes you in.

Soft words drop from his softer lips, though you know that your name will not be one of them. You know that it is not you that he thinks of, that he has turned away to give you a different face, a different mind, a different heart, but it does not matter. He may use you as he likes. You will gladly give him this.

He is a beautiful bird, wrapped in the clothes of a lion, his claws sharp when all he means to do is sing, and you will never be deserving of him, but you may spend a night in his company. It is more than you ever thought possible. Tonight he sings for you, his body thrumming with your touch, his gasps and lust-roughened voice working in harmony with your own. His hips move in time with yours, body responding to every stroke, every half-formed desire. Your hands grip his sides, fingers spread along the soft skin and flexing muscle as you both work towards perfection.

“Harder,” he orders, pushing back and opening himself up to you even more. His fingertips scrape along your side before he drops himself to the bed and hides his face from the world. “Like the bull you are.”

You obey, of course you do, harder and faster and over again until he cries out. Every whimper, every tremble is a victory in a long-fought war, a triumph to be celebrated, to be remembered.

Little more than a pliant doll afterwards, he holds himself still until you finish, waiting out each shudder until the last. When your fingers finally loosen, your grip on him no longer bruising, he pushes himself up with a sigh. He stretches, body rippling with the motion, and smiles again, more like himself than you’ve seen in awhile. As he looks at you, you are stung with the realization that this is Jack before you, Jonathan, the Prince having retired for the night. He kisses you then, slow and softer than you would have imagined, full of fondness and you’d like to think gratitude. “It’s nice to have someone that you can trust,” he says.

You nod. “Always, sir,” you tell him and think of how you will follow this man until you can no longer walk and even then you will crawl.

His lips brush against yours again. “Jack,” he corrects.

You faithfully repeat it. “Jack.” His smile makes you think that you could fly, if he wills you to.

Whatever tomorrow holds, or the day after that, you know that you will not regret this night, giving yourself to this man, if only for a moment. His song, his self, is now a part of you. You know that he will not reciprocate, keeping himself whole, sure to lock himself away in the coming hours, but you see now what all of those who devote themselves to him have been witness to. You have seen the light that he shines only to the few, and only when the mask of Prince gives way to the man hidden underneath. It is this man that you will follow, this man that you will hail as your king when the time comes, and you will stay beside him for as long as he allows.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally watched Kings. Because Sebastian Stan is beautiful and amazing.


End file.
